


The Sun in the Sea

by WhichWolfWins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Contest Entry, M/M, Piratelock, Teenlock, emotional distress, fuckyeahteenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhichWolfWins/pseuds/WhichWolfWins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was of no surprise to Sherlock that Anderson didn't spot the body floating in the ocean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun in the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Historical AU contest over at fuckyeahteenlock on tumblr. I hope you guys like it! :)
> 
> This fic is in no way brit-picked or beta'd, so if you see any mistakes, they are my own and I would love for you to inform me of them! :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC, and anyone else involved with the making and producing of this show. This is in no way mine; these are their toys and I am simply playing with them.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *Edited: 11/15/13*

Sherlock stood with a spyglass clasped in his hand on a rocking ship. He was underneath a dark sky that was every shade of blue, including near-black and a very light, powdery blue. A streak of indigo clouds masked the sun, which made the waves that crashed and receded against the ship look like ink; he couldn’t see a thing beneath the rippling surface.

There were two reasons Sherlock stood on the deck at that precise moment; one of which was the inability to fall asleep that night as the rain outside battered against the ship. The other reason was that he could smell something other than the ocean and fresh rain in the air: Sherlock could smell smoke. With each inhale, he could taste burning wood on his tongue. 

Every so often the sun would manage to peek through the indigo and the smoke clouds and a beam of light would fracture off the waves, making the ocean look topped with diamonds. It was then, as Sherlock looked out across the sparkling dark water through the spyglasses lens, that he caught sight of the billowing white fabric rising and falling with the waves. 

A cloud escaped Sherlock’s lips as they parted in surprise and he quickly tucked his spyglass into his pocket. “Man overboard!” Sherlock cried. He wasn't surprised that whoever was in the water had gone unnoticed by Anderson, the imbecile on watch. Sherlock quickly kicked off his shoes, shucked his jacket, and dove into the water’s dark depths. 

It felt like diving into ice water and Sherlock’s heart froze with the sudden shock of it. A shiver shuddered through him as he forced himself not to gasp, lest he suck in the ocean’s salty water, and he propelled his arms through the frigid waves. His arms moved stiffly due to the cold, barely fighting against the tossing waves, so he kicked behind him and flailed through the freezing water until, at last, his hand got caught in the fabric of the floater’s shirt. 

Sherlock fisted the cloth with one hand and tugged, hard, until the body tucked inside was brought close enough for him to wrap his arm around it, leaving the small chest the boy had been clinging to bobbing in the water. The words _Love, Harry_ were carved in small, barely there letters on the right side near the bottom of the lid, Sherlock saw, but it wouldn't register until he was back on the boat. For now, Sherlock kept his grip on the boy’s shirt and forced his free arm and his tired legs not to give out as he struggled away from the chest and back to the ship. 

Ropes were tossed down from the deck and Sherlock managed to get the boy into a sling of them before his muscles gave out and he sank under the surface. He went down like a stone, his arms and legs refusing to push against the sea as it overwhelmed him. His limbs were unmovable as he went down and he closed his eyes as the dark water take him. He'd always expected he'd die at sea, anyway, though he really hadn't predicted it would be so soon. 

Something snagged Sherlock's ankle and his eyes flew open as he was suddenly ripped from the water. His nostrils were flooded as he was dragged out upside down and the liquid flowed from his clothes over his face. He spluttered and gasped as he was jerked through the air and yanked over the railing where he was deposited on the hard deck floor. Water pooled around him as he flailed to get himself free of the rope. He hastily loosened the rope around his ankle and found that the noose had left a nasty red circle on his wet skin. Heaving for air, he whipped around to look for his treasure. 

The boy he’d pulled from the sea was a pale shade of blue laying on the wooden floorboards of the deck. Sherlock's eyes went to the white shirt that clung to the contours of the boy's chest and he noticed right away that there was no rise and fall, that the boy's blue lips were no longer sucking in air. 

Sherlock moved quickly, pushing aside his shipmates to get to the young man. Sherlock stared at him, not quite sure what to do. Without meaning to, he noted that the boy’s hair was dark from the ocean and plastered to his forehead, and water ran in rivulets down his forehead. It pooled over his eyelids or escaped down his cheeks, where a faint stain of soot remained. 

Sherlock dropped to his knees. The smoke and sea water burned Sherlock’s nasal cavity as he pried the boy’s mouth open and covered it with his own. He forced his breath into the young man's mouth, filling his lungs with large gusts of air. He continued on doing this, sucking in air and breathing it out into the boys mouth, even when he began to feel light-headed. 

With a sudden jolt, he felt the boy recoil beneath him and backed away just in time to avoid the full force of the water surging forth from the boy’s lips. It splashed onto the deck between them and would have spotted Sherlock’s knees damp if they weren’t already soaked. The boy coughed and choked, bent in half over his knees, until his airways were clear, then he flopped onto his back once more. Sherlock waved away his crowding crew mates with a glare and the captain, Lestrade, shouted for them to return to their posts while he looked on in concern with his arms crossed tight. 

That’s when the boy’s head lolled to the side and he opened his eyes against the rising sun. For the first time, the boy looked up at Sherlock and the pirate noticed right away that the boy's eyes looked like two gems of sapphire. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and he had to force his own lungs to take in air. 

A crease appeared between the boy’s brows, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he squinted against the sun. “Did you just save me?” he asked, his voice croaking. 

Sherlock picked up his deposited water pouch and handed it over to the boy, who took it thankfully and drank deeply from it. Sherlock stared openly. “If you consider returning you to life saving you, then yes.” 

The boy chuckled and handed Sherlock back the pouch. Sherlock slung it on his belt once more. 

“I’m John Watson,” the young man said, and he licked his sea-salted lips. 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock informed him, peering down at the boy from where he knelt above him. He realized that his lips, too, tasted like the ocean. 

A faint smile crossed the boy’s face before he sat up suddenly, looking frantic. He looked around the deck in search of something before he clambered to the railing. He searched the water’s surface with blue eyes that matched the waves; both were now a light, glittering blue. The clouds and the smoke had started to dissipate. 

“If you’re looking for the chest,” Sherlock said, standing beside the boy at the railing, “it’s right over there.” 

The young man followed Sherlock’s finger in the direction of the box and he quickly went to the chest that had been pulled aboard. He dropped down onto his knees in front of it and dug hastily in his pocket for a key. Finding it, luckily, still there, he withdrew the key and fitted it into the lock. With a click, John unlocked the chest and raised the lid with hope writ on his features. 

A few beats thumped in Sherlock's chest before he saw the young man’s shoulders sink. It drew Sherlock attention to the boy's back and he saw through John's damp white shirt there there was a faint starburst scar on the his shoulder. Sherlock had to force his gaze away, his curiosity getting the best of him as it so often did, to peer over John's shoulder into the open chest. 

Pages and pages of parchment with curled corners filled the chest. As Sherlock watched, streams of black ink bled from the top pages, filling the corners of the chest with inky water and washing away the neat cursive letters upon them. As Sherlock tried to make out what the pages had once said, a sob escaped John’s throat and he dipped his hands into the box to pull out the sopping wet pages. The parchment landed with a splat on the deck and John dove back in, extracting the dripping pages from the chest and depositing them on the deck floor. 

“John,” Sherlock said quietly as the boy began carefully peeling each ruined piece of parchment apart and laying them out across the wooden floor. When John didn’t respond, Sherlock stepped forward and touched the boy’s scarred shoulder gently. John jerked his body away and rose to pace away from Sherlock, a stack of sagging parchment still held in his hands. 

“Everything I’ve written since leaving home,” John said, his voice broken as he raised the pages. A few tore and fell with a plop to the floorboards. “They’re ruined.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said softly. 

John cried out and threw the soggy pages to the sea. He grabbed pages from the deck and threw them overboard, then went back for more and threw those, too. When he went for the final ruined pages, Sherlock stopped him. He grabbed John’s wrists and held them tight in his hands, squeezing the young man’s wrists together. “I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said as tears darted down the shorter boy’s already damp cheeks. “I’m sorry.” 

John hanged his head and tear drops splashed onto the wet floorboards beneath his feet. “Everything I’ve written, everything I’ve done... it’s all gone. My ship, my crew...” John shook his head and looked up at Sherlock with his eyelashes damp with sea water and tears. “What am I supposed to do now?” 

Sherlock stared at the hard press of John's lips together. “Start again,” he said, softly. He leaned forward a bit, the shells in his curls clinking together as he bent down to look in John’s eyes. “I’ve got an empty bunk in my room; you can stay with me.” 

John’s eyes widened and he looked down at Sherlock’s hands clasped around his wrists. “You’d do that?” 

Sherlock laughed. “I’m not an easy person to live with,” Sherlock warned. 

“Neither am I,” John said, his eyes darkening. He cast his gaze on the remaining wet parchment. “I can do sutures,” John said. He looked back up at Sherlock, looking determined. “I can bandage wounds and I’m a crack-shot with any Flintlock.” 

A smile spread across Sherlock’s face and he laughed warmly. “Let’s start with getting us into some dry clothes,” he suggested. 

That night, and every night to follow, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sat on the deck with their legs dangling through the railing, watching as the sun set. John had a quill, ink, and sheets of parchment that he covered in his loopy scrawl, recording the adventures in which he and Sherlock took place. Secretly (at first), Sherlock would watch as John wrote, determining the height of the sun by the shades of gold in John’s hair. 

Eventually, he did this sitting just a little bit closer to John on the deck, so that his hand brushed John’s breeches when he leaned back on his palms. Not long after that, he did this with his fingers laced through John’s. And sometime following, Sherlock would wake not with John in the bunk above him, but beside him, and he would get to watch as John’s hair grew gold for the first time once again in the rising sun as it shone in through their window. 

With Sherlock, John Watson started again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have the time, I would appreciate it if you could tell me what you think of this! :)
> 
> There is a big possibility that I will continue this fic.
> 
> If you would like to follow my tumblr, it's [here!](http://whichwolfwins.tumblr.com/)


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